


night moves

by BasicBathsheba



Series: just for a moment, let's be still [2]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Fluff, Good Music, Night Driving, Simon has good music taste, escaping life's problems through nighttime drives, honestly this is all just very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 18:36:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14575116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasicBathsheba/pseuds/BasicBathsheba
Summary: His hand finds mine on the gear shift and he gives my fingers a light squeeze. Out of the corner of my vision I can see him silently mouthing the words. His eyes flick to me and he smiles again.Keep driving, the smile says.So I do.





	night moves

**Author's Note:**

> recommended listening while reading: [Night Moves - Bob Seger](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fopen.spotify.com%2Ftrack%2F6UBjSnyP1O5W5ndJoO9vUk%3Fsi%3DccwdRWwoRoa32TIvIYWHRw&t=ZGI1NzRkNDQ3Yjg5MzgzMDUyYTlmZmYzYmRkOTAwMzI1NmY3NGQ5MCxOUndFWDVOdQ%3D%3D&b=t%3A9ZfxfQAI9k6PvC3aQT2MVQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fbasic-banshee.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173685246937%2Fnight-moves&m=1)

His head is pressed against the car window, and he turns to smile at me.

It’s a small smile, a tired smile. I can see the bags under his eyes, the puffiness from earlier that keeps his face from truly glowing. But there’s no sadness in his expression, nothing weighing it down. His face is clear of furrowed brow and anxiety, and he looks calm.

I love him best like this. At rest. At peace. Smiling because he wants to, because it’s easy, because he’s always giving, and his smiles are what I love to receive the most. Because he’s  _him_ , and he’s alive, and joy should come to him as easy as breathing.

I lean over to turn up the radio. I know that’s what caused the smile; he loves this song. He loves this entire playlist that Bunce made for him of “Songs From America” but he loves this one the most. I don’t know why. But something in it speaks to him, so I love it too.

He rolls the window down slightly and the night air whips inside the car, ruffling at his hair, and he closes his eyes and turns his face to the wind. It smells like damp leaves and the turning seasons, the promise of rain to come.

I pull my eyes from him and back to the windscreen, focusing on the narrow back road that’s falling away under us, taking us farther and farther from his London flat, from the stress and emotions and bad dreams that plague us both, and I try not to think of earlier tonight, of waking into the stifling silence, both of us breathing heavy and clinging to each other.

His hand finds mine on the gear shift and he gives my fingers a light squeeze. Out of the corner of my vision I can see him silently mouthing the words. His eyes flick to me and he smiles again. 

 _Keep driving_ , the smile says. 

So I do.

He never used to like driving. He said it made him sick, made him feel confined and trapped. But I think it was the expectation of the destination that bothered him: the idea that he had to focus on the journey and the surroundings and the anticipation of where he would end up. He started to enjoy it more when he learned that there didn’t have to be a destination. That he could close his eyes and just be. That wherever we stopped, I would still be there.

Some nights we don’t leave London. We just circle and talk and return to the flat, physically exhausted but emotionally refreshed. Some nights we leave the city far behind, driving in silence before turning around and going home and doing our best to face the coming day. Once we sang all the way to Wales, turned around at Cardiff and headed to Oxford, appearing on my parent’s doorstep in time for breakfast, smiles on our faces, our hands clasped together, breathing easier than we had in years.

I don’t think we’ll drive to Wales tonight. It’s not that kind of night. We didn’t have those kinds of dreams, the ones where being awake and alive are such a relief that everything is delightful, everything is easy, and anything is better than being asleep.

We don’t drive as much or as far as we used to. These midnight excursions have started to become more of an occasional indulgence than a coping mechanism or a distraction. As they grow rarer they grow more precious to me; these liminal nighttime hours where there is nothing but road and wind and me and him, where nothing has ever happened and we have always existed at peace, together.

He lifts his head from the window and turns to look at me, his cheek pressed into the headrest as his eyes wander my face. He can’t see me as well as I see him. There’s no streetlights on these country roads, nothing to illuminate the inside of my car aside from the moon and the small glare of the stereo controls on the dash. But I don’t think he’s looking for details. I think he’s just looking. Just allowing himself to soak into this moment. 

He catches my eye, mouths the final words to the song and blinks slowly before giving me another small, easy smile.

He doesn’t speak, but it says it all.  _Thank you. I love you. Let’s go home._

I navigate the car into a pull off and turn my head to look back at him fully. To look at his sleepy smile, his wind tossed hair, his speckled skin. He’s everything, in this moment. He’s everything to me, always, but especially on these nights.

I turn the car around and take us home.


End file.
